


Wherein The Duke of Wellington Acquires the Taint of Magic

by FrancesHouseman



Series: Jonathan Strange and The Duke of Wellington [2]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Waterloo, The Duchess of Richmond's Ball, a little kinky, misuse of magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 05:37:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4292754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is well after midnight and becoming rather un-fashionably late when The Duke of Wellington finally arrives.  </p><p>Strange shudders as he always does when Wellington makes an entrance, ever since their private interview at Maria del Porto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wherein The Duke of Wellington Acquires the Taint of Magic

 

The City of Brussels is in a state of barely constrained panic, and with good reason. After lunch, Strange had used magic to observe the enemy, as he has been asked to do on a daily basis. The protective warding that hides the French Army's location remains infuriatingly in place, and Strange would be using his time to find a way around it, if only he hadn't been ordered to attend the Duchess of Richmond's ball this evening. However, two things had been clear from the afternoon's scrying: French troops are being deployed, and they are being deployed rapidly.

 

Spirits at the ball are high but there is a nervous tension in the air. Strange feels it, like the rippling of magic, in whispered conversations and suppressed hilarity. Whatever the fallout of this war, it will be a sombre turning point in European history. To throw a party at such a time is to tempt fate, and they all know it.

 

It occurs to Strange that if the enemy wanted to make short work of the British Army then this evening's festivities would have been the perfect time and place to strike. Every officer that Strange can think of is in attendance at the ball. Indeed, the only man missing appears to be the Duke of Wellington himself.

 

Strange meets Lord Hay's regard across the ballroom, grinning as he leaves the dance floor. There's a pretty girl on his arm, one of the Duke and Duchess of Richmond's daughters Strange thinks. He smiles back, feeling the warmth of mutual friendship.

 

Lord Hay is already a fine gentleman, if a very young one. Strange enjoys his energy and enthusiasm and looks forward to their continued acquaintance when the war is over. Strange may not know all the ins and outs of London Society but hopes that he knows enough to repay the young Lord Hay's kindness, at least in some small part, upon their return.

 

Two even younger ladies approach Lord Hay and his dance partner, even as Lord Hay and his dance partner approach Strange. They all meet together in a happy gathering beneath the ribbons and flowers, and Strange wishes that they were in London, that it was the correct time for parties and that Arabella was on his arm.

 

“Ladies, may I present Mr Strange, our magician.”

 

When Lord Hay says ' _magician_ ' the young ladies' eyes light up. They really are delightfully pretty things. “Good evening,” Strange says with a bow. He adds a little magician's flourish to charm them.

 

“Mr Strange, may I present Lady Sarah Lennox,” the lady on his arm smiles sweetly, “Lady Frances Webster and Lady Georgiana Lennox.”

 

Lady Georgiana rolls her eyes in an unladylike fashion at the introduction. “It's _Georgy,_ ” she says, quashing decorum with the carelessness only affected by the very upper-class.

 

Lord Hay bows a mock apology, “Lady Georgy.”

 

“Mr Strange, is it true that they call you Merlin?” Lady Frances asks.

 

“Frances!” Lady Sarah scolds, but Strange waves a hand and smiles to show that he doesn't mind in the least. He's older yes, but not some ancient stick-in-the-mud.

 

“I'm afraid so. The Duke of Wellington insists and it seems to have stuck,” he says.

 

Georgy nods sagely. “Arthur stole Louisa's pony once,” she confides. “The pony was called Dapple Grey like in the children's song, but Arthur wasn't as mean as that lady. I should think he only means to tease you.”

 

Strange can't help but smile. He has enormous respect for the Duke of Wellington but has seen the man's cruel streak first hand, or at the very least his dreadfully dry sense of humour. Georgy is so earnest, only a child. He inclines his head and hopes that he looks grateful for her advice rather than amused.

 

“Might you make it rain?” Lady Frances asks.

 

“I might,” Strange says, “But would Your Ladyships not prefer sunshine?”

 

“Might you travel in time?” Georgy asks, “Or change shape?”

 

“According to all the literature at my disposal the former is quite impossible I'm afraid. As for the latter, how would Your Ladyship prefer me?” Strange asks. “As a parrot perhaps, or a dancing bear?”

 

“I vote dancing bear,” says Lord Hay.

 

“No! A black panther,” Georgy decides, becoming quite animated.

 

“Might you make it so that all the French soldiers grow pig's tails?” Lady Frances asks.

 

“Might you turn Napoleon into a frog?” interjects Georgy before he has the chance to answer, and Lady Frances titters. Lady Sarah directs a little frown of disapproval Georgy's way but it is ignored.

 

“I had understood that he already is one,” Strange says, earning himself smiles all around.

 

A tastefully bejewelled middle-aged lady touches Lady Frances' arm as she passes their group, and whispers a few words into her ear before gliding on by. Lady Frances goes quite pale. “Oh!” she says, “But you are all riding off to fight Napoleon in the morning.”

 

“Oh!” says Georgy, “Oh no!” and Strange thinks the darling child might burst into tears.

 

“Then I must make haste with a spell for porcine attributes,” Strange says, but his heart is rapidly sinking at the news. They had known that it was coming, that it was only a matter of time before the next engagement. He sees the same resignation settle in Lord Hay, but then the younger man squares his shoulders and affects a determined smile. Strange clears his throat and draws himself up likewise. If this boy, almost young enough to be Strange's son, can revisit the horrors of battle with valour and spunk then Strange can too.

 

“That little Corsican will rue the day he was born,” Lord Hay tells Georgy, with a surety that leaves even Strange feeling comforted. He turns and bows to her sister, “Dear Lady Sarah, one more dance? That I may hold its memory in my heart even as I vanquish the French Calvary in your honour.” He winks at Strange and escorts the blushing girl back to the dance floor.

 

They are so young for war, Strange thinks as he watches them go, and he longs for Arabella.

 

It is well after midnight and becoming rather un-fashionably late when The Duke of Wellington finally arrives. The officers call him 'The Beau' amongst themselves because he is a fine dresser, and tonight he has surpassed himself. Strange shudders as he always does when Wellington makes an entrance, ever since their private interview at Maria del Porto. It gives him a feeling that he can't quite put his finger on, something akin to fear or respect. He decides that it is admiration, and rightly so; the man is already a living legend. 

 

Wellington's gaze slides past Strange, although he does murmur 'Merlin' in acknowledgement. Strange is here at the Duke's direct command and the affected disinterest irks but doesn't surprise him.

 

“ _Georgy!_ ” Wellington greets Strange's companion, his voice warmer than any hug. It serves to make Strange feel the slight of his own brush-off more keenly.

 

“Are the rumours true?” she asks without preamble. “Must you leave us tomorrow?”

 

Wellington reaches for Georgy's shoulder and squeezes gently. “Yes, they are true,” he says softly, “We are off tomorrow,” and he is swept away into the throng.

 

Poor Georgy is visibly distressed, so Strange asks, “Who is the lady on The Duke of Wellignton's arm?” to distract her.

 

“Oh! That is Lady Charlotte Greville,” Georgy tells him.

 

“Isn't she beautiful?” Lady Frances says dreamily.

 

“Very,” Strange replies, meaning nothing of the sort. The woman is handsome certainly, but not beautiful. The more he watches them together, the more apparent it becomes that relations between the couple are intimate. The Duke of Wellington's marriage is, of course, well known, but hardly ever spoken of. Strange supposes that it is not a happy marriage, or at least not a faithful one. His time spent in London since their last campaign has opened Strange's eyes. He now knows how true Wellington's words had been concerning Strange's own loving marriage; it is a rarity indeed.

 

At the supper table Strange is seated beside the same lady who had passed the news to Lady Frances earlier, and Major Percy introduces her as Lady Hamilton. He introduces Strange as 'The Duke of Wellington's Magician,' which rankles rather because Strange likes to think of himself as his own magician.

 

Lady Frances and Lady Georgy sit across from Georgy's father. Beside him, the Marquise d’Assche sends death glares across the table to the Duke of Wellington. It is plain that she has mistaken the British indifference in the face of peril for callousness, and that her continental sensibilities are offended.

 

Strange realises that he has been watching Wellington rather too closely when the other man catches his eye and gives him, not a smile exactly, but a pleased lowering of the eyelids and a twitch of the lips. Strange is not the only one lost in fascination of their commander, but he resolves to make better conversation with his neighbours nevertheless.

 

They have barely been seated for twenty minutes when Wellington rises from the table. “My apologies,” he says to the company at large, “But I cannot stay for supper.” An excited murmur rises amongst the guests and the Duke's attention narrows in on Strange, with, Strange notes, no trouble at all now that he's to be useful. Indeed, it strikes him like a musket ball. “Come along Merlin.”

 

Strange extracts himself from the ill-timed party with 'Thank you's and 'Delighted to meet you's and hurries to catch up to the Dukes of Wellington and Richmond as they make their way to the private rooms.

 

“Have you a good map in the house?” Wellington asks their host. 

 

The map that the Duke of Richmond lays out is recently drawn and big enough to almost entirely cover the largest desk in the library.

 

Wellington begins immediately to scour it. "Napoleon has _humbugged_ me, by God!” he exclaims. “He has gained twenty-four hours’ march on me." He runs a hand through his short hair, more agitated that Strange has ever seen him, and takes a missive from his coat pocket.

 

Strange takes the envelope when it is thrust into his hand, and understands what is required of him before it is asked. He silently performs the spell that checks that the document is genuine and unsullied. It is, and Strange can feel the weight of its import down generations to come. He shivers.

 

“This city is crawling with French sympathizers and outright spies,” the Duke of Wellington complains, pacing to the bookshelves and back. “Written instruction may be intercepted, even forged.” Strange has never seen him like this before. He's close to ranting. “At least this one got through because Heaven save us from the idiocy of Dörnberg!” He paces back and forth once more and says, “Well?” impatiently. “Can you validate the thing with magic?”

 

“It's authenticity is suspect?” The Duke of Richmond asks, surprised at Wellington's paranoia in doubting his own intelligence officers.

 

“I do not think it is a fake,” Wellington answers, rather shortly, “But please understand, I must wager sixty eight thousand lives on this one piece of parchment. Reasonable caution I think, given that Bonaparte has been known to feint.”

 

“It is genuine, Your Grace,” Strange confirms and both Dukes fall silent.

 

Wellington bumps a fist to his mouth in thought. After a moment he nods. “I must beg your patience, Sir,” he says to the Duke of Richmond, “But I need a moment alone with my magician.”

 

The Duke of Richmond looks as though he would very much like to stay and witness Strange's magic and Strange feels hot under his scrutiny.

 

“Might we make free with your map?” Wellington prompts.

 

“Of course, of course,” the Duke of Richmond accedes and steps outside.

 

Strange has only been alone on one previous occasion with the Duke of Wellington, and although the meeting hadn't been bad precisely, he remembers parts of it being distinctly uncomfortable. He feels nervous without the reassuring presence of the Duke of Richmond or their usual crowd of strategists.

 

Wellington opens his mouth to speak but they are interrupted by a knock at the door. “Enter,” he says through gritted teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

 

It is the butler. “Your Grace, Lady Greville asks if she might visit with you one last time before you depart for battle,” he says.

 

“I'm afraid I must decline.” Wellington says with a forced smile that wouldn't fool a child. “Tell Lady Greville, and nobody else mind,” and he fixes the butler with a stern look before continuing, “That we are bolstered by Her Ladyship's courage. Tell her that we carry her virtue in our hearts as a guiding light, but that time is of the essence. I know that she will understand.”

 

Strange looks determinedly at the map and fights to keep his face neutral until the butler has closed the door behind him.

 

Wellington ignores him, which is reassuring in its normalcy, and stabs at a place on the map with his finger. Strange leans in to read the name.

 

“Waterloo? Do you wish to see it, as I showed you Quatre Bras this afternoon, Your Grace?” Strange continues to loom over the map but looks up with his eyes. He can already feel the magic gathering to him, thrumming in his fingertips.

 

“I want you to look into the future.” Wellington says, and lets the idea settle between them.

 

The pacing and ranting may have ceased but the Duke has a frustrated energy about him. Strange imagines it crackling and hissing just beneath Wellington's skin. He wants to reach out and touch, just to see if their latent power combined will spark or scald.

 

“I'm not asking whether we win or lose. I'm not asking you to name the dead. Just confirm that this is the place,” he says, stabbing the map again. “We must engage the French in the best situation. It is _everything_. Do you understand?”

 

Strange nods. The map is a picture of sorts, and pictures are like mirrors, portals to other places. He holds his hands over the map, palms down and shuts everything out. “ _Tóweardnes dor_ _oncíegeþ Waterloo_ _,_ ” he says and ad-libs the rest, moulding the wild magic with his thoughts, persuading it to do as he asks. He is both conduit and diplomat.

 

When he cracks an eye open to see if it's working, Wellington is perfectly still and silent, looking on. There is very faint movement, a phantom overlaying the cartography, but it is too faint to make out the details.

 

Strange releases the magic and extinguishes the library gaslights with a pass of his hand. He levitates a lit candelabra to their desk, so that they may still perceive each other. Wellington is more impressive somehow by candlelight. He raises an eyebrow at Strange, and perhaps it had been lazy to use magic for mundane tasks but life would be dull if one couldn't show off a little every now and then.

 

Strange calls the portal back and this time they see it in all its horrific lucidity. It is a moving picture of devastation. Weak morning sunlight falls gently on what should be an idyllic countryside scene; a gentle slope leading down to a typical farm settlement in the background. In the foreground lie hundreds upon hundreds of dead and wounded soldiers and horses. They are moaning, low and continuous, and Strange can _hear_ them.

 

Medics pick their way through the fallen bodies and they watch in horror as soldier after soldier is perfunctorily examined and disregarded. Awful sounds fill the room, surrounding them. The moans seem to clarify without ever growing louder. There are intermittent cries from men in agony as they are disturbed, and, most chilling of all, the final rattling breaths of those in the throes of death. None of it should be audible through the portal but horror and hopelessness fill their ears and freeze Strange's blood in his veins.

 

There are more French down than English but plenty of the bodies lying trampled underfoot are Redcoats. Strange clears his throat. “It seems there is to be a battle at Waterloo.”

 

One of the red uniformed bodies rolls towards them groaning, its leg awfully mangled. “ _Gordon,_ ” Wellington gasps, and Strange ends the enchantment, wishing with everything in his being that he had thought to do so a moment earlier. The dreadful moaning is the last thing to fade away.

 

The Duke stares fixedly at the map, his mouth drawn tight and jaw set. After a moment he says, “Enough.”

 

Strange frowns, “The enchantment is ended, Your Grace.”

 

“No. I can still hear them.” Wellington puts a hand over his left ear, away and again, and shakes his head.

 

Strange tries to end the enchantment a second time. It occurs to him now, too late, that he should have asked for a window, ' _éagduru,'_ rather than a door, _'dor.'_ There is an outside chance that he has allowed something to pass through.

 

The Duke twitches, as if to rid himself of a fly. “It is faded but not yet gone.”

 

Strange moves closer in concern, a sour taste emerging at the back of his mouth. His stomach feels queasy. “Do you still hear them?” he asks, desperately hoping that the answer will be _no_.

 

“Yes.” Wellington looks to Strange for help but Strange is at a loss. He leans in close so that his left ear is beside the Duke's left ear but can hear nothing aside from Wellington's breathing. Warmth bleeds off the other man and Strange is seized with the desire to close the distance remaining between them.

 

Strange steps back, swallowing thickly. He has no idea how to fix this. Before he can speak Wellington turns away.

 

“No matter,” he says, straightening his coat. “The sound is barely perceptible and will no doubt fade. Fix the lights Merlin.”

 

The Duke of Richmond is found and returned to the library. Wellington makes no mention of magic and Strange says nothing at all, since he is not spoken to.

 

"I have ordered the army to concentrate at Quatre Bras,” Wellington explains to the Duke of Richmond, “But we shall not stop him there, and if so, I must fight him _here_." Wellington digs his nail hard into the map and it leaves an imprint.

 

Richmond marks the map with a pencil, tracing the downward imprint left by Wellington's thumb-nail and crossing it horizontally at Waterloo.

 

Strange feels the premonition in his very marrow; the crucifix to be marked on all future maps. He wonders how much of the old magic is very much alive and living in the everyday, and whether it mocks them.

 

“Come along Merlin,” Wellington says. They pass Richmond's aide-de-camp in the corridor on their way out.

 

In the carriage it is just the two of them once again, and Strange marvels that his life has brought him here, to the edge of battle beside the most admired man in the British Empire. There is every chance that their bodies are shortly destined to lie with the other moaning casualties at Waterloo.

 

“We must seize our opportunities when they present themselves or not at all,” the Duke of Wellington says, echoing Strange's own morbid thoughts.

 

Strange regards him warily, his pulse picking up, and Wellington slides along the bench seat so that they are sitting directly across from each other. It is a position that is usually avoided when two men are sharing a carriage, so as to prevent the embarrassing knocking of knees. The Duke's right knee presses against Strange's left.

 

“I am curious,” he says, “About your magic.”

 

“Your Grace?” Strange is hyper-aware of their point of contact.

 

Wellington snorts, laughter or derision at the reminder of his new title. “What does one do with oneself in London?” he asks, sliding down in the seat and pressing their legs more firmly together, “I'm afraid I've forgotten. There seemed to be plenty to do when I was there but I can't for the life of me remember what it was.”

 

“There are more aptly timed parties,” Strange ventures and the Duke smiles a real smile at him, the first that Strange has ever seen. It transforms him into the boy who stole Louisa's pony and Strange remembers now that he is Irish.

 

They regard each other as conspirators might. “I want you to use your magic on me,” Wellington says and the confession does terrible things to Strange, makes his blood run hot and addles his mind with reckless impulses.

 

“You-” Strange has to clear his throat.

 

Perhaps taking this as reluctance Wellington says, “Come now Merlin, might we not at least make the journey a little smoother?”

 

Yes, Strange can do that. There is a straightforward spell from Howard & Firth, _To Cushion the Infirm,_ and it works like a dream, their carriage becoming smooth and quiet as a darkened room. Wellington smiles again, not as wide as before but genuinely amused.

 

“Might you read my mind?” he asks.

 

Strange cannot be misreading the situation. The Duke's eyes are dark with promise and invitation. He even cocks his head a little to the side and raises his brows, half in question and half in challenge.

 

Strange casts another spell, one of his own invention, and it cloaks them from the outside world. It also serves to mute their voices from all but each other's ears. If this is Strange's chance to repay the Duke's attentions then he fully intends for the Duke to be singing the basest fugue of lust before their journey is through.

 

There are spells to calm and soothe the emotions, Strange discovered them in Norrell's extensive library whilst dallying with a way in which to help poor Lady Pole. Although the book had intended for the spells to help and heal, the magic involved might as easily be used to arouse emotion in a man, if the magician casting were skilful enough to ad-lib. Strange intends to excite and provoke.

 

He lets his magic reach out and touch Wellington, the necessary adjustments to the spell coming easily to mind. He expects to find strings of emotions like those of a harp, as he had found when Arabella allowed him to soothe her. With Wellington he can sense that the strings are there but it's more like an elaborate cat's cradle; much too complex and entangled to have any hope of plucking only one. A larger obstacle still is that Strange can't even reach the strings, only sense them, since they're deeply buried. He allows his magic to retreat, to changes tactics. Wellington must first be divested of the layers that keep Strange's magic, and everyone else besides, out.

 

“ _Àcýðan úre ansíen_ ,” Strange mutters, part of the Brown & Dawling truth incantation that comes to mind. Wellington's eyes widen as Strange opens him, his cocksure veneer falling away.

 

Strange is not surprised to find the measure of a great man beneath the façade but it is gratifying to have it confirmed nevertheless. Wellington grips the bench seat, knuckles turning white, and Strange persuades the magic deeper still, to the foundations of decency.

 

He finds Wellington's foundations and they are strong, unshakeable as Doric columns. These are what keep Wellington anchored, his very sanity, and Strange summons a great surge of energy and lifts them all simultaneously, holding each column tenderly aloft with his magic.

 

Wellington's cheeks are flushed and it makes him look very young indeed. He tries to speak, “J- J-” but Strange pushes the magic deeper, careful to hold onto the columns, and Wellington's mouth falls open on a formless word that is really more of a groan.

 

At his centre, the Duke's heart is big and unbroken. It is shrouded in a thin layer of gossamer that Strange toys with but leaves in place. Where he does allow his magic to touch it is deliciously sensual, as the finest silk against his skin. Wellington gasps and rolls his eyes. The touch is even more intimate perhaps than what was done to Strange. Strange is surprised to find that his desire to provoke Wellington's emotions has turned into a desire to soothe the man after all.

 

Although Wellington's heart is unbroken, there are wounds that Strange can sense, one in particular that is larger than the rest. Strange soothes it, never removing the final layer of gossamer. He pushes with his magic, two extra decades of healing, and strokes again, one last time. He wishes that he could stay here, heal all the wounds and bask in the tantalising affection that he has found in the secret heart of his Duke, but of course he can't, or at least not in good conscience. There are emotions welling up in Wellington that could be a danger to them both.

 

The magic doesn't want to be reigned in, the urge to claim and unveil almost overwhelming, but Strange forces himself to draw back. He has no desire to see the Duke of Wellington cry. 

 

He sets the columns down delicately and even bolsters them a little, not that they require it. He smooths Wellington's outer layers back into place, one on top the other and waits for the Duke to regain his composure. Wellington doesn't look up. His hands don't unclench from the edge of the seat and Strange becomes concerned, for the second time, that he has irrevocably damaged the Empire's hero with his magic.

 

He goes to his knees on the wooden floor so that he might better look up into the Duke's face and assess the damage. It is a small gap between benches and Strange is not a small man, so he is pressed into Wellington's personal space. The closeness brings with it a new understanding of the Duke's predicament. He is red faced, breathing heavily and precariously aroused. Strange's face is brought much closer to the shape and smell of the Duke's arousal through his breeches than he had intended.

 

The Duke looks at him in utter disbelief. “Oh, _blood and thunder_!” he snarls, scrambling to open his breeches. He guides Strange's mouth down onto his cock and Strange has no idea that he's going to open his mouth and take it until it is already happening.

 

A man may learn many surprising things about himself throughout his lifetime. Strange is surprised to learn that he loves to have his mouth stuffed full of the Duke of Wellington's cock. It is perfect, too perfect to last, and the thought of returning to the barracks achingly hard and unsatisfied is intolerable to Strange, so he unfastens his own breeches and takes himself in hand as he works on the Duke. Forget the buoyancy of Lord Hay or the wit of Colquhoun Grant. Strange wants to worship here forever; the Duke of Wellington is everything that Strange admires in a man. It is only a moment before he has a chance to prove his devotion, as there is nothing to do but swallow.

 

Wellington looks happy and unguarded after his climax. He smooths his thumbs over Strange's eyebrows and runs his fingers back through Strange's curls.

 

Strange is hard and already hanging out of his breeches. Wellington takes Strange's face between his hands and rubs one leather-clad shin up and down against Strange's cock. It is a maddening combination of slide and chafe.

 

“Come on Merlin.” It's a taunt, but more playful than cruel, and it makes Strange harder still. He rubs himself against the Duke's boot, controlling his rhythm in attempt to maintain his last shreds of dignity. The leather is soon too slippery with Strange's excitement however, and his thrusts become increasingly desperate. He's aware, near the end, that he is humping the Duke of Wellington's leg like a dog. It should be humiliating, _is_ humiliating, but Wellington is looking at him in a way that could only be described as fond, eyes half-hooded with pleasure at the authority afforded him, and it drives Strange on.

 

He reaches his peak in a frenzy that he has seldom experienced, his seed marking stripes on the soft black leather of the boot. Wellington murmurs, “Lick it up,” and ghosts the fingertips of his right hand over Strange's lips.

 

When it is done, Wellington pats the bench seat beside him and they sit quietly, a small gap between them, thinking their own thoughts.

 

“Is your curiosity satisfied, Your Grace?” Strange asks, gaining another small smile.

 

“For now,” the Duke replies, then, rather imperiously, “You may end the enchantment.”

 

Strange had forgotten the cloaking and cushioning spells. He ends them and the noise of horses' hooves are shockingly loud and close.

 

Wellington observes him shrewdly, no qualms with making Strange the subject of his full attention in private. Strange wonders whether the man will continue to snub him a little in public. He expects so. “I hope, Merlin, that you have been practising your offensive magic, gentleman or no.”

 

And that brings the weight of their current situation back to the fore. They're preparing for battle. Strange must be focussed. “I will do my best, Your Grace,” he replies sincerely but the Duke appears unconvinced.

 

“You are a soldier now. We must all of us do our duty, and as soldiers our duty is to kill our enemies or die trying.”

 

Strange swallows. He doesn't like the idea of killing another man, even less so with the unfair advantage of magic. He can feel the power, could so easily do it, yet has come so far without needing to.

 

Wellington is still watching him. He says, “England has her share of riffraff and I have no love for most of them.” He lays his hand on Strange's thigh and squeezes. “But think of Arabella. Do your duty in this war and save your wife the horrors of the _Place de la Révolution_.”

 

The idea of dear sweet Arabella as Marie Antoinette is awful. However, the thing that leaves Strange reeling with surprise is that the Duke of Wellington should have remembered his wife's name.

 

The remainder of the journey is comfortable enough. They arrive at the barracks with a jolt and a thump on the roof from the driver. As he steps down from the carriage Wellington says, “You have two hours to sleep, Merlin. We march at dawn.”

 

Strange watches him as he sets his hat just so and walks away, white feathers trailing. Officers close ranks around him as he strides through the courtyard but Strange hears his parting order to the stable boy.

 

“Fenton! Find my magician a horse.”

 

 


End file.
